“He may be in Lady Pickering’s garden,” said Bernadette. “But if you don’t find him there he’s likely gone to number 20 Ryder Street, colloquially known as The Devil’s Staircase, and if he’s there, I’m afraid you won’t have an easy time extracting him.”

“You’d better hope he hasn’t been into the gin,” said Betsy. “He might pick a fight with you then.”

“Heavens,” said Lord Flanders, his eyes widening. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Oh, this is pointless,” said Blanche impatiently. “Miss Beaton, you must go and fetch our brother. You’re the only one he listens to these days. You have a great deal of influence over him. Take West’s carriage and his footmen if he’s not in the gardens. Lord Flanders, Bernadette and I will travel home in your equipage while the twins return with Aunt Miriam.”

Lord Flanders beamed. “It would be my great honor and pleasure.”

“I, er,” said Viola. “I’m not certain that I have as much influence as you think I—”

“It’s all settled, Miss Beaton,” said Blanche, her face calm and resigned. “You must convince our brother to come home and cause no further scandal tonight. I simply couldn’t bear it.”

“Yes, please do find my nephew and make him come home,” urged Aunt Miriam. “My nerves can’t stand any more bad news this evening.”

Blanche took Lord Flanders’s proffered arm and the ladies set off, leaving Viola to face the daunting prospect of finding a jilted duke and convincing him to steer clear of further scandal.

She’d try the garden first.

It was a warm midspring evening with a soft yellow moon hanging gently in the sky. The air was scented with roses. Candles hung in globes from the trees, illuminating the white stone footpath that took her deeper into the garden.

The ball had resumed and she could see couples dancing and laughing through the windows.

If this were a setting in a novel it would be quite romantic, she reflected. The wallflower walking down the garden path for a moonlit assignation with a handsome duke, her heart beating a staccato rhythm.

This had nothing to do with romance. She had a duty to perform. That was all.

“Your Grace,” she called softly. “Westbury.”

A gruff, groaning sound turned her head. She would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. He was seated on a white marble bench, golden head bent, and shoulders shaking.

Perhaps Belinda had been right. He might feel the shame of the jilting, or the loss of the marriage settlement and the reinstatement of financial ruin, so keenly that he was weeping.

He wouldn’t want her to see him crying. She hovered nearby, trying to decide the best course of action. She must comfort him. It really wasn’t his fault, after all.

“Your Grace.” She touched his shoulder. “It’s me, Miss Beaton.”